Priorities
by pgrabia
Summary: House reevaluates his priorities when Wilson turns ill without him noticing. Response fic to Episode 7X6 "Office Politics".  Spoilers all eps up to 7x6.  H/W pre-slash. Coarse language and adult content.  Reader Discretion is advised.


**Title: ****Priorities**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D., its characters and locations belong to David Shore, Top Hat and Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairings:** House, Wilson, Sam (mentions Cuddy); House/Cuddy, Wilson/Sam, House/Wilson pre-slash.

**Warnings/Spoilers:** Adult concepts, coarse language; General spoilers for all seasons up to and including Episode 7x6: "Office Politics".

**Word Count: **2419

**Rating:** T/PG-13

**Author's Notes: **I'm very disappointed with season 7. It's not just because of the Huddy arc, but because the writing in general is terrible, there's a huge lack of originality (which I believe isn't necessary), and the characters are so OOC from the way they were established up to and including season 5. Even in "Broken" House's character was much more IC than he is now. I write this as a response to what I see as an almost intentional intent by TPTB to destroy the show I grew to love.

**H**e could still feel the sting of where her hand had slapped him on his butt cheek. House felt like the cliché buxom secretary of a business executive who had roaming hands and no respect for her. The swat from Cuddy hadn't been soft and sexy—it had been hard and impersonal and had felt like she was smugly telling him who his daddy was—not only at work, but in their personal lives as well. That didn't sit well with him at all. Was she really using his need for both sex and companionship and his fear of screwing up their relationship to manipulate him? Was he the one making the decisions for the treatment of his patients or had he become so pathetic that he was compromising by allowing her to use their relationship to control how he practiced medicine?

Suddenly, he didn't feel so guilty about tricking Cuddy about the Hep A treatment for his patient with Hep C and then lying about tricking her.

House sighed. Why did his relationship with Cuddy constantly feel like a losing battle? He really needed to talk with Wilson about this new development. He left his office and walked to the oncologist's next door. As he always did House barged in without knocking. Wilson wasn't sitting at his desk even though his desk lamp was still on and both his suit jacket and his lab coat were hung up on the rack. House sensed that something was wrong but he couldn't put his finger on what.

There was a Styrofoam coffee cup sitting on the younger man's desk. House picked it up and could see that there was very little of the coffee gone and it was still hot enough to steam. He went to set the cup down when his eye caught movement from the floor level behind Wilson's desk. House quickly rounded the desk and saw his best friend lying there having a seizure.

House sat next to Wilson's bed, watching him sleep. The heart monitor beeped quietly and rhythmically in the background. An IV pole and regulator stood towards the head of the hospital bed feeding him saline. He looked quite frail and sickly, his skin boasting a yellowish tone against the stark whiteness of the hospital linens. The Chief of Oncology had nearly died shortly after House called for a trauma cart and a syringe with Clonazepam. Apparently, unbeknownst to House or Wilson's medical file he was allergic to that anticonvulsant medication. That had been taken care of fairly easily with a hefty dose of epinephrine.

The cause of the original seizure had yet to be determined. House wondered how long Wilson had been lying on the floor behind his desk semi-conscious or seizing. It had been hours since House had last talked to him, and then it was only to say hello in passing as he headed down to Cuddy's office to have lunch with her.

He couldn't remember seeing any sign in Wilson that there was something wrong with him but after a few minutes of asking around his team discovered that several members of the oncology staff had noticed how he had been walking slower for a couple of weeks now, and how he only came out of his office to quickly do rounds, attend a meeting, or perform some kind of specific treatment. One nurse had noticed him looking dazed and scratching at his arms and chest earlier that same morning.

Everybody who had been in contact with Wilson over the past two weeks had noticed that something wasn't right about him but House. He was the goddamned diagnostic genius and he had been the last one to discover that his best friend was ill. How the hell did that happen?

House knew how, but admitting it to himself had been difficult. He had been so wrapped up in his relationship with Cuddy and working like the devil to keep it functioning that he hadn't been spending time with Wilson except when he barged in and used him as a sounding board and source of advice. Even on the double date House's focus had been on cheering Cuddy up after her loss at the go-kart track. He'd spent some time with Wilson when he'd been babysitting Rachel but even then the focus had been on making certain the brat didn't die after swallowing a dime.

Spending no more than five or ten minutes a day with someone did not a friendship make—or preserve.

When Wilson awoke he looked over at House and in spite of how sick he must have felt he smiled weakly upon seeing him. House sighed in relief that he'd awakened. It was so good to see his rich brown eyes, even if they were swimming in a sea of yellow.

"What happened?" Wilson whispered.

"Your liver is failing," House told him. "Cirrhosis caused by autoimmune hepatitis. I stopped by your office and found you on the floor, seizing."

The oncologist frowned but didn't appear to be surprised. "It's treatable, isn't it?" he asked.

"You're currently on corticosteroids," was the answer. "You'll improve but the scarring is permanent. It's possible this was triggered by your use of minocycline. What's interesting is that there is nothing in your medical records about you being prescribed minocycline and you've never had an acne problem that I've seen."

Wilson sighed. "How did you find out about it?"

"Duh! I had my team search the loft and your office as soon as they were bailed out of jail—and don't ask why they were in jail," House answered, rolling his eyes. "They found it in a Tylenol bottle in your golf bag. Sneaky—if you hadn't gotten sick I would have been impressed! The only reason I can see for you to be so sneaky is you didn't want Sam to know you were taking an antibiotic that, among other things, is used to treat two kinds of STD. You're a damned _idiot_! You could have contracted HIV or Hep C!. Haven't you heard about _condoms_?" House took a deep breath to calm himself. "So, have you been slipping antibiotics into her coffee or doesn't she know that she could be infected with Chlamydia or Gonorrhea?"

"I was going to tell her," Wilson responded, avoiding his best friend's eyes.

"When—after she was symptomatic and you had no other choice?"

"She developed a UTI shortly after I found out and her doctor prescribed Suprax for it," Wilson answered. "I managed to collect a sample of her urine without her knowing it very much the same way I tried to do with you when I suspected you were using again. She didn't catch on, though. It tested clean."

"You fluked out," House told him. "Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy! Old habits die hard. Who was it this time? That red-headed nurse in PICU? You're next-door neighbor? Someone you picked up at a bar?"

"It doesn't matter who," Wilson told him coldly. "And if you think I'm proud of it you're wrong."

"Actually it does matter," the diagnostician told him, feeling frustrated with him. "Whoever she is she may not be aware that she's infected and needs to be notified. You know that."

"I don't know…the person," Wilson told him, "and it's unlikely I'll ever see that person again. I didn't even ask their name."

House frowned. There was something strange about his friend's answers and it had nothing to do with the fact that he'd had a one-night stand. It was his use of 'person' and 'their' instead of 'her'. Puzzled, he decided to question it directly.

"Well, I'm glad that it was a person, Wilson," he told him with a smirk. "A person will be able to recognize that something is wrong once the symptoms develop. I'd hate to think that there's an unwitting horse out there that's sick and needs help."

"House—"

"What are you hiding?" House demanded, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the oncologist's face for clues. "Why are you carefully choosing your words? A feminine pronoun…?" His voice trailed off as it dawned on him what the reason could be. "Unless it wasn't a female that you were with."

"What?" Wilson responded a little too quickly, his voice squeaking slightly. "Of course it was a—a—female! Are you out of your mind? I'm not gay!"

"Nobody said you were gay," House told him, feeling both a little shocked and a little hopeful. "Mid-life often brings questions, curiosity…"

"Shut up!" Wilson answered quite angrily. "I screwed around on Sam. Fine. You figured it out—big surprise—but don't go there, House!"

"Why is this upsetting you so much?" House demanded quietly. "I've always teased you about batting for the other team. Who knows, maybe you're a switch hitter. It's not like I'd hate you if you were. You'll always be my best friend even if you like to bat both ways."

Wilson's eyes looked away, only glancing back furtively to watch House's reaction as he spoke. "Maybe I'm not happy with Sam and I've been too proud to admit I made a mistake. Maybe I did do some thinking about why I can't seem to make my relationships work. It's possible I've sometimes wanted something different from time to time. Maybe I was lonely, missing someone very important to me…wanting someone I know I can't have. Maybe I found someone who reminded me of…of him…and I allowed myself to go too far because I fantasized that the stranger was that man I knew. Knowing that wouldn't freak you out and make you reconsider your friendship with me, would it?"

House sat listening to the oncologist in fascination, unable to believe what he was hearing. He never thought he would hear an admission like this coming out of James Wilson's mouth. Was he that someone very important to the younger man, the one he believed he couldn't have? No, that couldn't be right, House decided. Wilson wouldn't have started dating Sam and wouldn't have asked him to move out so he could move her in if that were the case. It didn't matter, and House warned himself not to allow himself to hope. Wilson was his best friend and would remain so and that was sufficient.

Still, he couldn't resist probing further. "I'm not freaked out and you're my best friend regardless. If that…man…you care about was more available than you think, would that make the difference with being able to make a relationship with him work?"

Looking at House questioningly the younger man answered honestly, "I don't know. But that man and I have been friends for a long time and have weathered a lot together. If I were ever to have a chance at success, it would be with him. Why are you asking me that?"

A shrug was given and then, "If that man is who I think he is, then what if I told you he's felt the same way for you for a long time but never thought he could get what he wanted either? Would my just telling you that cause you to reconsider your friendship with me?"

A corner of Wilson's mouth curved upward slightly as soulful eyes met House's.

"No," he answered softly. "It wouldn't."

House opened his mouth to say more when the door to Wilson's room slid open and drew the attention of both men. Samantha Carr came rushing in and went directly to Wilson's bedside without a glance in House's direction. "James, I caught the first flight I could! Oh sweetheart! How are you feeling? They told me it was your liver…"

House caught Wilson's eye for a brief moment; Wilson looked at him apologetically.

"I'm fine, Sam, really," Wilson told her, rolling his eyes when she hugged him. "Ask House."

Sam drew away from her boyfriend and looked at the diagnostician for reassurance. House wanted to tell her to get her interrupting ass out of the room but knew better. He didn't want to make things hard on Wilson, especially now while he was sick.

"Wilson suffers from autoimmune hepatitis. He's being given Prednisone and should be fine once the treatment takes hold."

Wilson nodded. "By the way, what brought you to my office in the first place?"

House paused a moment. Wilson had helped him work through his issues without even knowing it.

"It's moot, at this point," he told the younger man. "I've already figured out what I need to do."

"Maybe you can fill me in on that later," the oncologist suggested, frowning slightly when Sam began to fuss over him. His dark eyes were full of meaning.

The diagnostician shrugged, then nodded slightly, and left the room. On his way out he heard his best friend tell Sam that they had something important to discuss.

House had much to talk with Cuddy about too and the sooner it happened, the better for everyone. Two things were certain: he was going to pursue the conversation he'd just had with Wilson the next opportunity he was afforded and in the meantime he was going to have a long overdue discussion with his boss. There weren't going to be further problems with having his girlfriend attempting to manipulate his way of practicing medicine—or anything else for that matter—again.

**~fin~**


End file.
